Missing Pieces
by LindMea
Summary: Response to a Tumblr prompt: "I wouldn't mind if you stayed".


The wave of warmth and noise that hit Robin as she pulled open the pub's door was almost solid; the place was packed, and Robin had to shoulder her way through a tightly bunched group of cackling middle-aged women blocking the doorway before she could get a view of the room.

It was never hard to find Strike in a crowd, big as he was; and sure enough, he was the first thing she saw as she rounded the bar, her eyes settling on his dark curls rising a head above those around him, as though drawn by gravitational force. She began to pick her way through the maze of crammed-together tables to the corner where he was seated, muttering apologies as she squeezed her way through the end-of-week revellers.

As she drew nearer, she could see him more clearly, sitting on the end of a booth packed with the friends he'd taken the evening off to go out with; she could see Ilsa and Nick from here, and Dave Polworth, to whom she'd been introduced that afternoon at the office, as well as several other men and women she didn't recognize. They were a raucous group, laughing and shouting, and Strike - she slowed, watching him, fascinated by this glimpse of a Cormoran that she had never seen before. He seemed to be telling a story, gesticulating wildly with an almost empty pint glass in hand; he slapped the back of the man sitting next to him, and the table roared with laughter - and he laughed with them, his head thrown back, his big hand still gripping the shoulder of his neighbour.

She was almost at the table now, and she could see the grin splitting his face, his eyes alight with humour as he cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted something across the table. She had never before seen him so easy, so relaxed, so - happy, she realized, with a sting of something like envy at the knowledge that there was any part of Strike's life that she, his partner, wasn't privy to. She pushed that feeling back down, repeating fiercely to herself the mantra about professional distance that had been a constant refrain in her head for months now, ever since-

"Robin! What're you doing here?" He had seen her at last, jerking his head around to look up at her. His face was flushed red, a stray curl sticking to the sweat shining on his forehead. His astonishment at her sudden appearance was fleeting; it shifted rapidly to a broad smile, and Robin felt her mouth curl up to mirror his, a familiar warmth fluttering in her stomach at the expression of delight in his dark eyes surrounded by their crinkling laugh lines.

"You left your keys in the office," she said, hoping desperately that her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

"Fuck, did I?" Strike began to pat desperately at his pockets, and Robin giggled out loud at the consternation on his face upon the discovery that they were empty. She held out the forgotten keys, resisting the urge to jingle them in front of his face.

He grinned, told her loudly that she was a genius, and reached clumsily to take them; his thick fingers brushed over hers as he did so, his rough thumb dragging across the skin of her inner wrist. Robin jerked her hand back and he hesitated, keys in hand, the grin slipping off his face and his eyes intent on hers. She struggled desperately to reign in her unruly blush, to stop herself from flexing the hand that was tingling from the touch of his skin.

Strike opened his mouth, as if about to speak; but he was interrupted by the sound of someone shouting Robin's name over the din of the pub.

Robin managed to wrench her eyes from the hold of Strike's gaze; It was Ilsa who had shouted, grinning and gesturing at Robin from the other end of the table. "Sit down, have a drink with us!"

Robin took an automatic step back from the table, from Strike.

"Oh, I can't," she said, shaking her head. "I've got-" she paused, certain that Strike would not welcome an encroachment on his social life, which he had always kept carefully separate from their job - from her- yet unable to think of a credible excuse. She settled for an apologetic half-shrug, and a vague gesture towards the pub door. Ilsa pulled an exaggerated pout of disappointment, but nodded and lifted her glass at Robin in a toast before turning back to her conversation with the woman next to her.

"Night, then," Robin said to Strike, giving him a stupid little half-wave and cringing inwardly at herself as she did so. As she turned to leave, though, Strike's hand shot out to grab her wrist. She froze; his grip was quite loose, but the warmth of his fingers barely encircling her wrist held her in place as firmly as though they were an iron vice.

"I wouldn't mind if you stayed," he said, quietly, his face turned towards her, but his eyes averted so that he seemed to be addressing her navel.

"I don't want to intrude," she murmured, but he was already shaking his head.

"You wouldn't be," he said, voice certain. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, earnest and serious. Perhaps he could see Robin wavering, because after a moment's pause he added, his voice warm and a little husky, "I'd like you to stay."

At this, Robin's resolve, already weak, crumbled. "Well, all right," she said, a little shakily. His big hand was still wrapped around her wrist, and she could feel her cheeks flaming with that damn traitorous blush.

Strike grinned at her. He didn't drop her hand, though; instead, he elbowed the man sitting next to him and told him to shove along, which he did, grumbling. Strike heaved himself over, then tugged Robin into the empty space, letting go of her hand only when she was settled beside him, leaning back to stretch his arm along the top of the booth's cushioned backrest.

"Not much space," he said gruffly, before taking a deep pull of his pint.

"We'll manage," she said softly, leaning into the solid warmth of him, the comforting weight of his arm on her shoulders. She felt the length of his thigh tense and shift to press more firmly against hers, the soft brush of his thumb on her upper arm through the thin fabric of her shirt.

She could no longer summon thoughts of professional distance; her mantra had disintegrated in the bubble of giddy laughter rising in her throat, had been silenced by the single, overwhelming, distracting thought that was circling her mind, driving out everything else: _He wants me here_. _He'd like me to stay_.


End file.
